The Space Between Doing and Feeling or How I Love My Dad

So tonight, a night when I should have been doing a million other things in preparation for my family's arrival on Christmas eve, I found myself listening to Rosanne Cash's album Black Cadillac, an album which she began writing after her father's death. Specifically the song "I was Watching You" in which she tells her father that before she was even born, she knew him because "before life, there was love." This was a bad idea, because I really, really love my dad. And as the years go by and he gets older, I feel like the reality of a life without his physical presence in the world comes closer and closer and I do not want it to. And I try to tell myself that missing him before he is gone is not helpful, that it does nothing, but even the idea of him being gone creates a vacuum inside me and I feel profoundly alone.

A part of this is good. That I love my father, that my last name, my giant round head and huge duck feet are all things I inherited from him fills me with pride, that with my life, I feel I can make good on the promises he made to himself as a child--these are wonderful things. I can't deny the fact that someday he, and everyone, will die and that it will be painful, but I also cannot forget that right now he, and I, are alive. And I have wasted my first free evening in 8 days, feeling afraid of something I cannot control and allowing my heart to break before it really has reason to.

What I find difficult, is how to clean the toilet and the bathtub, when you cannot stop thinking about how your father is... how he is almost god-like in his presence in your life, the way he finds his way into your everyday speech, the texture of your gray hairs, your eyebrows, the way you handle conflict at your job, the way you talk to people at the grocery store, the way you love being admired for your intellect, the way you love spirituality, the way you search for god (even if you have found different ones). My dad isn't just himself, his physical body. There is me, and Allan and Adrienne and all of my siblings, and he is there too. My heart beats because he existed, because he exists. So what will it do when he is gone?

And what will I do in the meantime? The problem is that I cannot not think of it, but I can't just think of it. Where is the balance? How do I find the place where he can die and I can wait to be sad and I can continue breathing and just clean the bathtub and wash the dishes in the sink and wash the sheets and be ready for him when he comes, alive and well, not as far from death as he was 20 years ago, but far still, to celebrate Christmas with his family in my unique, strange adult life? Where is this space?

It is a small space I think, a narrow hallway. And I may never find it. My life isn't necessarily the epitome of balance. Perhaps, when I feel afraid of my dad's death, I can reach further into my chest and find that what lies at the foundation of that fear, is a bottomless ocean abyss full of loyalty, gratitude and love for the first man for whom I ever felt loyalty, gratitude or love. And maybe once I am there, I will be able to clean the bathroom, so that when he gets here, he won't have to worry about slipping on the floor of my shower.

The Art of Crankiness (or when to hold your tongue)

I have been increasingly cranky the past four days. And when I say cranky I mean easy to irritate, easy to yell, easy to upset, and then equally as easy to calm down once I've yelled, been upset and been irritated. I suppose a better word word would be moody, but the thing is that the very juvenile nature of my irritability requires a word associated with toddlers.

This morning, a friend of mine (taking a hint from Resevoir Dogs let us call her Mrs. Pink) and I had made a coffee date (like we do almost every single day). Poor Mrs. Pink woke up late, thought she could still get to Starbucks on time but couldn't, called me to let me know she wouldn't be able to make it and unknowingly placed herself in Cranky Deb's line of fire. I attempted to shame Mrs. Pink on the phone (lucky for her, she refused to accept said shame) and when that wasn't enough, attempted to shame her via text message, the most juvenile form of reprimand. Then, while we reconciled ourselves via g-chat, I proceeded to emotionally vomit upon Mrs. Pink my disappointment about she and I going to a different mall then I had wanted to go to on Tuesday, at which point I realized I had gone too far.

When I was growing up, my parents were firm believers in expressing one's emotions at all times, and this, not so surprisingly, has translated itself in my adult life to a complete inability to hold anything back. Anything I think, feel, experience at any given moment must be described to anyone and everyone, be it the time I pooped my pants, a magical experience seeing Symphony Hall completely empty for the first time, or my concern for my Dad and his swollen leg. Most of the time (I hope) this is just entertaining.

But what I'm starting to realize is that there is also a time to just shut up. Not everyone needs to know everything and I am not necessarily talking about my own embarrassing stories. The thing is that Mrs. Pink doesn't need to be subjected to my anger because she is late once out of a thousand coffee dates. There is no reason for her to feel guilty or for me to try to make her feel guilty. And, yes, I feel better after I've talked about it, but at what cost? Maybe it's about time for me to reign it in and to start expressing myself with a little grace and tact, which, though hard to come by when you are a member of my family, would be appreciated by all my loved ones. So, stay prepared for stories about excrement and my beard hair, but know that hopefully, if you are late, I can be capable of loving you enough to know that, sometimes, you just oversleep.

The Tell Tale Signs of Monday

1) You have been at work for less than 3 hours and already feel as though it is time to go home.

2) You have a list of things to do, but no matter how hard you try and no matter how time sensitive the things on said list may be, you cannot bring yourself to do any of them.

3) Your friends who are still students tell you they are still in their pajamas and a pit of rage and longing wells up in your gut with such intensity you feel you may ralph.

4) You are hungry all the time and hence, count the minutes until lunch (30 minutes to go).

5) You walk very VERY slowly to the bathroom, hoping to maximize time away from your desk only to return to find 3 minutes have passed. In response to this you drink as much water as your poor stomach can hold in order to take as many 3 minute bathroom breaks as possible.

6) You start to fantasize about what you would be doing if you had the day off. For example, let's say it's 60 degrees and sunny out on December 1st in a city renowned for its terrible weather. As a result of this you find yourself spending tens of minutes imagining sitting in the sunshine and reading a book. Or maybe, regardless of the weather, you just wish you were ANYWHERE but at your desk.

7) You imagine how great it would be to live a nomadic lifestyle. To grow your hair out and make it into dreadlocks. To grow out your beard (if you are so inclined) and stop showering. To hitchhike across the country until you reach your parents house and live with them just so that you won't have to pay rent so that you won't have to have a job that would require you to be in any sort of building for 8 hours a day.

And then you think of your iPhone. The one which you have been wanting for so long. And you think that if you can just sit at your desk until lunch, and then after lunch until 6pm you just might be able to buy one someday.

And then you think that maybe tomorrow you should call in sick.

A New Vocabulary

I have been going through a phase lately where, for some reason or another, I am jealous of everyone I know. Because they have more money than I do. Because they are thinner. Because they have a freer diet. Because they are not subject to debilitating periods of guilt and self-hatred. Because they are attractive. Because they have straight hair. Because they can accept things the way they are without judgment. Because they have a fitted wardrobe. Because they are going home for Thanksgiving. You name it, I am jealous of it.

Now, it is all well and good to tell your friends you feel jealous of them but the thing is that usually whatever you feel jealous of them for is something they can rationalize away. For example, I'm thinner because I work out more, I just am not as expressive about my self-hatred, I am NOT that attractive, I wish I had curly hair etc. So to tell a person you feel jealous of them, doesn't really make anyone feel any better. In fact, the other person looks like an idiot for not appreciating what they have, while you just feel enraged that they can have something so fantastic and not appreciate it.

But what my jealously comes down to is my own life. It doesn't really have anything to do with how my friends handle money or sex or beauty or food, but how I feel about how I handle these things. I perpetuate this terrible cycle in which everything I do amounts to absolutely nothing. There are people who have made better financial choices than me, but right now, I am piecing together the foundation of my adult relationship to money. I make less mistakes now than I did a year ago, and I am proud of this. And the real truth is, I find myself nice to look at and for all my flaws and failures, I am trying to be good and I think that, sometimes, this is all we can say for ourselves.

My biggest problem is not my friends and their successes (which are many as I have incredible friends) but the fact that I have trouble giving myself room to succeed. I project failure and rejection before it is even a reality and then make my own terrible dreams come true.

WELL, I AM DONE WITH THAT!!!

I am officially only going to use the following words in regards to myself: wonderful, successful, hard-working, in progress, sextastic, and hot.

Laundry and Leaders

I do my laundry at a laundromat three blocks away from my house and, because it is so close, I rarely hang out while my things are laundered, having faith that very few thieves are hefty enough or have girlfriends hefty enough to fit into my clothes. Last night, when I returned to pick up my dried clothes, a disheveled and slightly bloody man was reporting that he had been mugged while waiting for his clothes to dry. Apparently, the mugger had come in the back door of the building and tackled this poor man to the ground before dragging him outside and punching him repeatedly all the while shouting, "Give me all your money." The man had no money on him, but informed the mugger that his wallet was in his jacket inside the laundromat. The mugger ran back in the building, grabbed the jacket and took off down the block. And I think to myself My clothes were in the drier that whole time. It sounds petty, but what I mean is I could've been there. That could've been me.

It's strange, but yesterday, because of the election, because Americans banded together and elected Barack Obama president, I feel affected by the entire world. I suppose I always have been, but this election is the first time I made my own decision for whom to vote. I watched some of the debates, I read Obama's speeches and I decided that he was the person I wanted to be in the executive branch of the government. When I filled in the bubble next to his name I felt confident that I was making an informed decision, the decision I thought best for myself, the people I love and my country as a whole. And then when he won, my first thought was that I had a part in it, albeit a small one. My tiny little vote bubble, along with millions of other Americans', voted that man into office. I stayed up late (as did the rest of the country) to watch his acceptance speech and was surprised to find myself moved to tears, not by anything he said, but by his face as he walked to the podium. He looked heavy, aware of the gravity of his new role, vulnerable and slightly afraid. This is the way I would want my president to feel.

I think we forget, as Americans, that we are not invulnerable. On Tuesday, we exert our power in the political world, and then on Wednesday, a man doing his laundry gets beat up. We are powerful when we join together, but our power is limited. We, as a country, as human beings are hanging on by a thread. This is not to diminish the sheer awesomeness, hopefulness and joy that President Obama brings with him to the Oval Office, but we should take his example and understand the sheer weight of our role. Obama is an advocate for change, and with change comes the need for good, difficult work and with this comes risk and with risk comes an inevitable exposure of the most delicate parts of ourselves.

I am not going to stop doing laundry at my laundromat because that poor man was hurt. But I am going to try to be aware that at anytime, for any reason or no reason at all, things happen. I hope I can be gracious while watching President Obama govern our country, because, as he proved with just a look in his eyes, he is just a man. And thank god for it.

WANTED: Easy Answers (or brown pants)

There. I said it. I want them. And I want them to be formulaic and terribly simple. Steps, in fact. Like the New Kids on the Block song. I would like to understand the answers to the following questions:

1)How do I get rid of my acne? It isn't bad enough to pay to see a Doctor, but in my mind I have freaking leprosy. I think Like I don't have enough physical deficiencies without cystic fucking acne.

2)Why don't I like my job? It isn't my boss (even though it would be excellent to blame it all on him); he is actually quite pleasant the majority of the time. It isn't the hours, or the work, or anything like that. Perhaps my unexplained disdain for my work place is manifesting itself in giant, painful red pimples on my face that I cannot help but pick at constantly.

3)Why do I live so far away from my freaking family? They are the only people with whom I feel unafraid to love and be loved. I am TERRIFIED with everyone else, convinced I will do something, say something and then *poof* love dissipates like steam on a mirror.

and the most important questions is this...

4) What is it like to love someone? How do you do it without hurting them, hurting yourself? I would tell myself the answer... that you cannot. But that is not easy enough for me today. Everything... every aspect of one's self goes into the act of loving: the emotional self, of course, but what about the political self, the career-oriented self, the spiritual self, the physical self... all of these involved in the act of love. What is it really? The only answer I can think of (which is just not easy enough) is that love is chaos. But how do you love people who don't understand this? Perhaps this is the big question... how do you love someone who thinks you aren't supposed to hurt them? Because I'm going to. And each time I will be sorry and I will repent and I will try my hardest to do right... but someday I will hurt you while trying to do right. And those people who don't understand, their love will go *poof* and though I know logically that perhaps that person doesn't want my love, love is chaotic enough to not understand who is deserving of it.

Since I can't have easy answers, all I want is a pair of brown pants that fit me and are the right length. Please... I just want a pair of brown pants. 

The Big D (and I don't mean me)

For the past week and a half, I have been reading a non-fiction book by Mary Roach called Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers which describes all the different uses (scientific and otherwise) for the lifeless human form. If it sounds grotesque that's because it is. I spend most of my time reading with a horrified (and fascinated) look on my face. I started reading it as an attempt to shock my psyche into a familiarity with death, to confront head-on that which I am afraid of and, for once in my life an idea of mine is working the way I planned and it is doing just that.

While sitting in Symphony Hall on Friday listening to the Brahms Requiem, I thought, "In a hundred years, everyone in this building will be dead." There was no fear (well not just then) but wonder at the fragility of skin, organs, breath, the body as a whole. Now, don't get me wrong, I was scared a moment later (and that moment of courage could have been rooted in the fact that I did not really love anyone in the hall), but for the millisecond it took for the thought to form in my mind, death was just something that happened. It wasn't scary; it was simply the evolution of time, huge and full of chaos. I was completely diminished and relieved to be so. 

Penny asked me today if I've always been obsessed with death, and I suppose it is a more recent development. I am aware of the expiring of my body, my parents' bodies, my brother's body... I have spent so much time trying to not to think about that which begins to happen from the moment we reach adulthood.

But Walt Whitman says: 

"What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere.

The smallest sprout shows that there is really no death

and if ever there was, it led forward life

and does not wait at the end to arrest it

and cease the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward.

Nothing collapses.

And to die is different from what anyone supposed

And luckier."

Apparently, reading about cadavers being crashed in cars to test air bags, being blown up to test land mine foot protection, rotting in a field in order to study human decomposition for forensic purposes, or being dissected in medical school labs makes me think... what a delicate and brave thing is a human being.